As befitted someone who spent half his life looking at it, my father had a beautiful watch. Although I don’t recall the make, I do remember how sleek and elegant it was. My father’s whole life seemed to be ruled by time and by his pathological hatred of being late. I remember once sitting in a restaurant with him as we awaited the arrival of his lunch guest, an old friend whom he had bidden to arrive at 1 p.m. My father and I had got to the restaurant 20 minutes or so before the appointed hour, as was his practice, and at five to one he glanced at his watch and sighed crossly, ‘Tsk, in five minutes’ time the bloody man will be late.’
In later years, although a complete technophobe, my father bought himself an answering machine, fearful of the calls that he might miss when he was out.
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